


can't, can't, can't (this is what perfection feels like)

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Dom Peter Hale, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Inspection, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Stiles POV, Sub Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He shakes his head. “I can’t tonight, okay? I can’t be what you want right now.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He tries to turn away, but Peter’s other hand slips ‘round his neck, cradling his jaw, stopping him. “Stiles,” goddamn him, but he can’t help meeting the blue-eyed stare, “you know as well as I do that this between us is about wants <b>and</b> needs. Tonight is about what you need.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>His gaze skitters away, skin heating under Peter’s palms. He doesn’t want to think about what he needs. Doesn’t want to think about what that means. Doesn’t want to be all stripped-raw, vulnerable parts—because that’s what Peter will demand from him. That’s what Peter will turn him into.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But then he’s leaning in, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Stiles’s smooth one. “Trust me to know what you need, sweetheart.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't, can't, can't (this is what perfection feels like)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everyone! So, writer's block sucks, and I _think_ this piece of pure, self-indulgent D/s-themed fluff probably kicked its butt, but here's to keeping fingers crossed. 
> 
> Thanks--as always--go to DenaCeleste and BelleAmante for pre-reading and enabling the everloving shit out of me and my Steter problem. Addiction. Thingy. Whatever. Enjoy the thing.

 

Stiles walks into his bedroom after helping the pack deal with the latest supernatural nasty, and is surprised to find Peter waiting for him. He shouldn’t be, not after all this time, especially not after playing whack-a-mole with red caps, but. He is. He should be used to this by now, but he isn’t.

(blame having an absentee father dead mother oblivious best friend Derek for setting a bad example him for provoking people ten times stronger than he is to have a go at him blame Jackson and the lacrosse team for completing the circlejerk of who-the-fuck-cares blame—)

Peter’s hand on his face, fingertips pressing at his temple and thumb stroking the skin under his eye, stops his train of thought. This close, their height difference is noticeable. He has to look down a little, to meet Peter’s gaze. But whatever Peter sees, he doesn’t like, because his expression tightens, lips going thin.

“Strip for me.” His tone is gentle, warm, but Stiles knows better than to think it’s anything but an order.

And he’s just—he can’t tonight. He didn’t have the backup he should’ve had out there, and it still feels like his brain is screaming at him, and his body is . . . he doesn’t actually want to think about what kind of shape he might be in, actually.

He shakes his head. “I can’t tonight, okay? I can’t be what you want right now.”

He tries to turn away, but Peter’s other hand slips ‘round his neck, cradling his jaw, stopping him. “Stiles,” goddamn him, but he can’t help meeting the blue-eyed stare, “you know as well as I do that this between us is about wants _and_ needs. Tonight is about what you need.”

His gaze skitters away, skin heating under Peter’s palms. He doesn’t want to think about what he needs. Doesn’t want to think about what that means. Doesn’t want to be all stripped-raw, vulnerable parts—because that’s what Peter will demand from him. That’s what Peter will turn him into.

But then he’s leaning in, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Stiles’s smooth one. “Trust me to know what you need, sweetheart.”

And Stiles just. He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, fear bubbling through his guts. Because Peter does know, is the thing. And it wouldn’t be the first time—far from it. But the adrenaline rushing extra-fast through his bloodstream can’t be ignored.

Still. He gulps down another breath before taking one, two, four steps back. He makes sure his bedroom door is locked, and then he kicks off his shoes. Tugs off his jacket before hanging it over the back of his desk chair. He hesitates, gripping the neck of his t-shirt.

“Come on, baby,” Peter murmurs. “Take it off.”

With that, he pulls his shirt over his head. He doesn’t look at Peter as he fumbles with his jeans, popping the button and tugging the fly down so he can kick his legs free. He uses his toes to pull his socks off, and then dumps everything into the laundry basket in the corner. He dawdles, wanting to put off what’s coming next.

But then Peter’s at his back, hands hot on either side of his waist, whispering, “All of it, Stiles.”

And there’s no resisting that. There just isn’t. So he drags his boxers down his hips, lets Peter’s grip steady him as he lifts one foot, and then the other to step out of them. He tries to ignore the way he starts trembling as Peter leads him back to the centre of the room.

He wants to keep his eyes closed, but he can’t. He needs to see Peter’s reactions, the minute facial twitches that’ll tell him how bad it really is and how upset Peter is by it. Knowing the touches are coming before they land is also reassuring, after the night he’s had. As always, Peter starts with his face, tracing his features with gentle fingers before mapping out the contours of his head under his hair. And that’s fine, everything’s okay, because nothing managed to hit him this high and he didn’t go face-planting. Peter’s expression stays calm.

That changes when he moves lower. His fingertips ghost over Stiles’s neck and collarbones, stopping at the right shoulder. Moving to the side, he lays his hands flat where arm connects to torso, front and back. “Roll your shoulder for me, sweetheart.”

Stiles does, and realizes that the stiff, achy feeling can’t mean anything good. Peter prods at it some more, which is uncomfortable but doesn’t actually _hurt_ , before he gives Stiles the verdict. “You’ve wrenched it.”

He can’t see Peter’s face, but he doesn’t have to. Peter’s very not-happy about this discovery. Stiles suspects that he won’t be either, by the time he wakes up tomorrow. But there’s not much he can do about it now.

He holds still as Peter’s hands continue tracking across his back, probing at tender spots here and there. When Peter drops to a crouch behind him, blood starts to colour his face, but a sudden flare of pain in the back of his thigh makes him forget his embarrassment. He yelps, jerking away. “I thought as much,” Peter growls.

Stiles licks his lips, trying to remember what’d happened. “What is it?” He thinks he knows, thinks it was when the one little bastard had almost knocked him to the ground, but he might’ve just pulled a muscle.

Peter circles back around to the front. The skin by his eyes is tight. “A bruise the size of Kentucky,” he replies flatly. Yep, definitely caused by the redcap, then. “Given how tender it is, I’d say that it’s a deep one. You might be limping for a few days.”

Stiles bites back the joke he wants to make. Because Peter isn’t a fan of bruises on him that Peter himself didn’t put there, and will probably be an insufferable prick until he’s healed. Until his skin is a pristine canvas for Peter’s mouth and hands again.

Peter traces over his front, chest and stomach, hips and legs, mouth pursing a little more with each injury he comes across. None of them are serious—a faint bruise over his ribs, knees a little raw from where he’d tripped and half-fell—but he knows they’ll hurt tomorrow. More importantly, Peter’s temper has a direct and inverse correlation to how injured he is. Stiles doesn’t plan on ever telling him that he wound up alone in the Preserve tonight. He’s had to deal with way too many bodies lately.

“So, will I live?” It’s a terrible joke to make, considering the kind of life they lead, but he knows he’s fine. Mostly fine. This time, anyway.

Peter gives him an irritated glare. “By some miracle, yes.”

But the sting in Peter’s words are undercut by the way he uses a hand on the back of Stiles’s neck to draw him closer and hold him tight. He lets his eyes close, and leans on Peter a little. Peter’s thumb rubs softly against the skin under his ear, and he feels some of the tension in his spine uncoil and slip away.

They stay there, pressed together and just breathing each other in, until Peter says, “Come on, baby. Shower time.”

And Stiles could argue that—because he can argue about everything and nothing, it’s a highly undervalued skill—but there’s not a lot of point. He’s sore, he’s itchy with dried sweat, and he just wants to sleep. So a shower it is.

Peter follows him as he pads to the bathroom naked, grateful that his dad is on night shift. Because while he could totally preserve his modesty by hiding behind Peter, this whole situation would be very difficult—and unpleasant—to explain. He thinks it’s going to be one of those nights where Peter just keeps him company, leaning against the counter while Stiles showers, but his second surprise comes when Peter starts stripping off as he’s adjusting the water temperature.

“Uh?” He blinks, mouth falling open a little. Because he is _never_ going to get so used to the glory that is Peter Hale’s naked body that he stops reacting in embarrassing ways.

“Eloquent,” Peter snarks. “But you’re not the only one who could use a shower after tonight.”

And Stiles just. He stands there, staring, as Peter slips under the water. His dick twitches, and if he weren’t so outrageously tired, he’d be getting hard.

He continues to stare as Peter lathers a washcloth and runs it across his neck, shoulders, chest, abs. Because wet, soapy Peter Hale? Should be illegal. Peter’s amused chuckle snaps him out of it, and he snaps his mouth shut, fighting down yet another blush.

“Get in, you. The view’s better up close.”

Stiles scrambles to get closer. He plucks the cloth from Peter’s hand and shamelessly scrubs down the werewolf’s back and ass. He smiles when Peter lets out a pleased rumble. He’s so focussed on the feel of Peter under his hands that he’s surprised when the washcloth is snatched away.

“I wasn’t done with that,” he sulks.

“Tonight isn’t about me, Stiles.” Peter’s voice is serious as he finishes washing up. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

He doesn’t reply to that. There’s no point. The rush of the falling water isn’t loud enough to cover the sound of his stuttering heartbeat if he lies. He’d learned that one the hard way.

Peter turns, and pushes him under the spray. He tips his face up into it, and feels some of his achiness trickle out of his body and down the drain. Peter tugs him back a step, and starts running the re-soaped washcloth over his skin in slow, deliberate circles. He leans against Peter’s chest, and can’t help smiling when he feels rather than hears the possessive growl Peter’s trying to hold back.

He bites his lip and props one arm on the cool tile when Peter leans down to drag the cloth against his inner thighs. It’s a teasing, possessive touch, and all he can think about is how fucking good it feels. When Peter moves higher, fondling his dick and balls under the guise of washing him, he moans, feeling the blood start to pool in his groin.

Peter breathes hotly in his ear, whispering, “That’s it,” as he twitches and gets half-hard in Peter’s hand. He’d thought he was too tired for anything like this, but apparently when Peter says ‘jump’, his dick asks ‘how high?’

His other hand flies up to brace him against the wall when Peter gropes his ass. He doesn’t whimper when Peter’s soapy fingers rub teasingly up and down the cleft, but it’s a near thing. Little Stiles is apparently very on-board with this turn of events, but since it feels like the blood filling his dick is being diverted from his legs, Stiles himself is less enthused.

Orgasms are great, but the best kinds of orgasms come without injuries on the side. The kind of injuries that happen in slippery bathrooms when teenage boys have over-long limbs and weak knees, for example. Stiles closes his eyes and curses his luck. “Peter, you need to stop.”

Peter pauses. He places a steadying hand on Stiles’s chest as he washes the mole-speckled back. “And why’s that?”

Stiles leans into Peter’s hand, grateful for the support. “I’m too tired for this, for one thing, and I’m really not interested in braining myself on the edge of the tub. Or the wall. Or any part of the bathroom, really.”

Peter huffs. It’s an annoyed sound. “I don’t think you understand, darling.” He wedges a thigh between Stiles’s, and hauls him back against Peter’s chest. “I just want to make you feel good. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He lets Peter take his weight, and rests his head against the broad shoulder. He gives a little shudder. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good boy.”

And then Peter’s touching him slowly, pulling out all the stops to make him breathless with pleasure. He thinks that maybe this is what perfection feels like: being held tightly in the moist heat of the shower, allowed to sprawl limply over (his loverpartner _Dom_ ) Peter while being brought to orgasm. There’s nothing he needs to do, nowhere he needs to go, and no one asking anything of him. It’s just him and Peter, whose care and attention are obsessive and consuming and twenty times better for it, and even if Stiles knows he should be running like he’s on fire, he can’t. There’s no possible way he could bring himself to give this up. Not if his life depended on it.  

Stiles is too tired to even try rocking his hips, and the thick forearm lying heavily across his waist would stop him anyway. He looks down, watching as Peter squeezes and twists his cock, more massaging than stroking. It’s only because he’s looking that he sees the faint grey tendrils snaking up the arm Peter’s using to hold him up. The pain-drain was so subtle that he would’ve missed it otherwise.

“Peter, stop it.” He bats at the dark-veined arm, just so there’s no confusion.

“No.” Peter gives a vicious twist to the head that has Stiles crying out, _yes_ and _good_ and _too-much_ racing each other down his spine.

He refuses to be put off that easily. “W-why not?” he gasps.

Peter’s voice is low and dangerous when he turns his head and speaks against Stiles’s skin. “Because it is a form of care I am capable and willing to provide, you only ever object out of guilt, and ‘stop it’ is not your safeword.” Stiles can’t help the way he shivers in Peter’s grip.

And just. Okay. He turns his head, nuzzling against Peter’s neck and reaching back to hold Peter’s hips. It leaves him open, his whole body on display. He’s trusting Peter to hold him up and make him come and ensure that he makes it to his bed in one piece. It feels good. Too good to fight.

“That’s it, sweet boy.”

Peter rewards him by abandoning his cock completely to tease at his balls with a thumb, the pads of his fingers pushing at the place just behind them. He doesn’t breach Stiles’s body, not after a night like this, not without lube, but he still puts pressure on Stiles’s prostate, pushing against it like it’s some kind of magic button.

But, really, it kinda is. Stiles can’t stop the way his back arches a little, cock jerking. He whines. Peter’s fingers press again—firmer, this time—and that’s it. The rush he feels when he comes is a soft sort of bliss. He thinks his bones might’ve melted a little.

Peter lets the water rinse away the evidence, and then holds Stiles against him while he twists the taps and dries them both with thick towels. Stiles would object to the way Peter all but carries him back to his bedroom, but it feels nice, and he doesn’t think his legs are capable of the complex task that is walking, and this isn’t the first time he’s been carried by a werewolf but it _is_ a memory of it he’ll cherish, so he stays quiet.

He swallows the ibuprofen Peter presses into his hand—“For the swelling”—and falls asleep while Peter is carefully smoothing the healing salve Deaton gave him onto his injuries, minor though most of them are. And if he wakes the next morning with the suspicion that Peter took his pain while he slept, he doesn’t say anything. He just curls closer to Peter’s chest, and enjoys the feeling of gentle fingers carding through his hair.

 


End file.
